


Fuck Beaches Get Money

by Cephalopod



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Breathplay, F/F, Hair-pulling, Mega Fef Bara Party Dance Dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephalopod/pseuds/Cephalopod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meenah deals with that lingering urge to murder the shit out of Feferi by finally encountering her in person during a dreambubble patrol. Two complications arise: one, she kind of *can't*, and two...Feferi's got something else in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck Beaches Get Money

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanglelore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanglelore/gifts).



It's been something of a snooze cruise these last couple of days on the S.S. Ship Yeah, previously the S.S. Flaaaaaaaawless, previously the S.S. Segue and before that it was just a number or something, you don't let the Captor kid get a say anymore. You're adrift, pretty much. It's dreambubble country and there's a lot fewer left these days than there used to be; the ones you do drift through tend to be sparsely-populated and frankly, not as weird as you'd come to expect based on how fucked-up your friends clearly are. Rocks and trees and trees and rocks and, occasionally, water. This bubble is one of those. You're on bow watch. It's the single most boring thing you've ever done, and that means it's more boring than spending half a sweep polishing the wiry glutes of the golden monument to self-love you used to keep in your stairwell.

Actually who are you fucking kidding, that half a sweep was the bomb. Your glutes are the definition of excellence by imperial decree. You decreed that and there were no surviving dissentors. Or any dissentors, since you lived alone on the moon, but the point stands that they'd have been culled. Not Beforan-style culled, not now that you know there's another way. Alternian culled. Ship yeah.

Anyway your ass is magnificent and you're considering starting a cheery little campfire on deck because who gives a fuck, you're god-tier, when the ocean starts to glow pink in front of the boat; this is exactly what you're supposed to deal with as bow watch so you're on your feet and your fork is ready, your fork is SO ready, you're the imperially mighty head of this fuckin' fleet and you're ready for anything...

...and then the ocean coughs and your own dancestor comes launching out like a gob of snot. Well, globes.

You chuck the fork at her anyway. It's reflex, it's not your fault, and anyway it’ll come back. It splashes down into the ocean to her right, clear evidence of your conflict on the matter of categorically erasing her from existence as a threat to your bodacious rule and eventual inevitable dominion over every fucking thing. Because she's cute. She is. That's an actual thing. When she comes drifting down to the deck and alights eight feet in front of you on one princessly pointed toe encased in a dainty satin slipper suitable for witchy flitting and whatnot, you realize something.

You've...never seen her up close, have you. You think you'd have remembered this.  

“It’s so cool to fin-ally meet you!” she says, beaming.

That sweet tone and the little flutter of eyelashes over the same dead-asshole eyes everybody’s got is max adorbs which you already knew, but it does sweet fuck all to distract from the self evident fact that your dancestor is built like a masonry-oblong load gaper enclosure. When she sticks out her hand to shake yours there’s things that happen where her shoulder and chest meet that remind you of a bunch of wolf eels doin’ it.

You wonder if that’s an Alternian thing.

It’s not like you don’t know a few now. The lowbloods and midbloods, at least, don’t look like they could punch you through a bulkhead. This one does.

Anyway the shaking hands thing, yeah, that’s not the kind of thing you do so you just give her five--nice and hard, hard enough to sting, because Feferi having shoulders like a couple of flippered barkbeasts jacked up for mating season does NOT mean you don’t want to trash her face off. Your tyrian instincts are still totally invested in removing her from whatever cross-session cross-everything line of succession you two share. That’s not a thing that stopped happening. You do your best shark grin at her as she looks down at her hand--musta hurt a little, heh. There’s a minute change in her expression around the eyes, as though something about your righteous puissance has surprised her somehow.

“Pleashore’s eel mine,” you say, because no rival for the throne is going to top your fish pun game. You tuck your arms into each other and get your insouciant on a little harder. A couple of gulls are having a fight up on the foreyard more or less right over her head--what you wouldn’t give for Rufioh’s animal control shenans right now.

“I thought you’d be...bigger,” she says, divoting her plump bottom lip with a finger. “I thought moby you’d be kind of scary!”

You stare. That was either a brazen pitchflirt or a brazen denigration of your personal majesty, and both are incitements to face-eating. A cold rush comes up your neck and chills your cheeks, fills out your fins to bristling, and there is no fucking way your spots aren’t glowing. Your hand curls for the shaft of your fork, but it hasn’t forgotten you threw it and come back yet. Did Princess Honeygrub Sugarpoof just bring it? Just like that? Has it been brung?

You decide it has. Your grin stretches wider. “Yeah well,” you say, “I figured YOU’D be a fluffy piece a-”  

“And have betta aim!” She does the eye flutter again. She glubbles. FUCKING GLUBBLES.

Oh scrod CLAMMIT this is so on right now. This is the sleaziest pitchbait pickup you’ve ever seen and you’re on it like grubsauce on grubloaf. You saw a porno like this once--Tyrian Rivals Conduct A Violent and Sensual Battle For Political and Sexual Supremacy Against a Backdrop of Fraught But Distant Interpersonal Connections Which Are Hastily Discarded In the Service of More Efficiently Achieving a Hasty and Brutal Pailing, Including Massive Nation-Scale Casualties Primarily Occurring Offscreen Due to Cost Overruns, One Humorous Desecration of a Deceased Whale Which was Largely Responsible for the Aforementioned Cost Overruns and Which We Do Not Regret in the Slightest, also Featuring No Fewer than Eighteen Instances of Heavy Tyrian Bleeding and an Insultingly Token Post-Pail Denoument Because We Are Aware of How Few of You Actually Keep Watching After Everyone Makes Slurry.

Classic. More importantly, YOU LEAP AT FEFERI AND HER SMUG FUCKING FACE AND YOU CHEW IT OFF SO YOU CAN SEIZE THE THRONE AND MAKE OUT WITH HER SKULL except oh wait no that doesn’t actually happen

oh wait you’re flying through the air

oh wait you just plowed into the ocean

Your gills snap open to gasp in surprise as you thrash back to the surface and Feferi’s leaning over the rail up there, smiling sweetly down at you. “Oh no you di~dn’t,” she lilts.

Did she just...toss you off the fucking boat? That’s the spadesiest thing anybody’s ever done to you. You’ve had actual nearly-successful attempts on your life that didn’t feel like such a direct challenge to your groove.

Oh cod did anybody _see_ her toss you off the fucking boat, though? You’re not trying to pale-pickup the whole coddam crew; this is serious business.  “Fuckin’ cheap shot,” you snap up at her, barkbeastpaddling, and palm your face when that unspoken question gets answered in the affirmative. Nitram’s prongs poke up over the gunwale. Your fork chooses this moment to return to you and you launch it straight at the little shiphead. He fucks off.

“That was fuckin’ weak,” you heckle, despite the obvious fact that it wasn’t. You’re not in the empress biz to be constrained by shit like factual consistency. Shell no. You are in it to fuck bichirs and get money, and now that things have got so pitchsticky your junk is chilling out with an increasingly earnest hope that both are gonna happen tonight. Except, y’know, not with bichirs. Cause that’s an aquatic pun, and you don’t actually screw sea creatures.

...okay, often. MOVING ON.

“Hook atcha,” you add, digging off your shoes out of long habit so your webbed toes can kick at the water more efficiently. You’ll probably need that.  “blowin a perchfectly good chance ta try me in a strait fight!”

She takes the bait, and swings over the railing in a smooth motion. You submerge a few meters. When she splashes down it’s like a military armament, all thunder and bubbles and a spreading cloud of dark just below the surface. That’s her hair.

If you hadn’t cut your hair maybe it would do that, drift huge and tendrilous around you all black and light-absorbing like a goddamn stage backdrop. But you cut your hair to look less like the Empress and that’s been working out all right for the last billion sweeps, so you cool it out and remember you’re the shit. Which you are. Alt-you is her Empress too, and Feferi’s Empress is the baddest troll to ever walk the night

Bichirs, you remember. Money. Her gold bracelets glint in the dimming light as she descends to you.

Your fork is taking its sweet time in getting back to you; you suspect that it is conflicted about this whole business. Feferi wastes no time at all, and in short order you’ve got legs like hawsers around your waist and a couple of cool hands clamping your throat closed. That’s landdweller shit though, your gills are still drawing in beaucoups buckets of oxygenated water above and below and between her fingers and all it takes is angling your head to sink your teeth straight into her, which gives you a malleable mouthful of trollboob pudding anchored onto solid chilly muscle. Your gums have never been so fucking happy as they are right now, bathed in the weird tart flavor of cold tyrian blood. You’re extinguishing a rival. You’re proving your supremacy. You’re squirming around in your pants like a baby tentaclebeast is trying to climb up past your navel.

You gnaw, kneading fingers deep into the squish and clench of her hips. Can your junk let itself out this time, maybe? The button at your waist snaps open with a ‘clink’ muffled by the water and you’re proud of it. Your hips tug upward urgently. Feferi’s wearing a skirt and you’re pretty sure it can figure that shit out too, you’re like 98% sure you can basically get a hold of her junk and fuck her tendrils straight off her as is right and proper-

 

It takes a second before you realize what the scratch of nails and the tug at the back of your head really means.

Oh cod.

Oh ship.

 

You can’t breathe you can’t breathe _you can’t breathe_ , your gillflaps are crushed down by four winds of heavy corded hair

your hips jerk and you’ve seen sea creatures do this before, your head shakes to free your mouth to gasp and nothing comes in

mussels frantically spawning when a sea star comes crawling up the piling to feast

sea stars clenching and gushing out gametes as the tide rolls out to leave them baking in the sun

Your hands dig frantically up her chest to meet the buoyant masses of breast. Nipples bulge between your fingers like an offering to breathe from them, but isn’t it a shame that’s not how they work? Your bulges gouge past the thin layer under her skirt and find hers; they cling and burrow and you’re almost sure this is pailing because she laughs and her head falls back and her hips roll up to chafe your bulgefronds into an intractable mess with hers.

Your mouth gapes like a beached fish up at her and your fronds stuff and twist into anything they can find. Is that her nook? It doesn’t matter. Her waste chute? Doesn’t matter. You need to get your genetic material out out OUT and you need to breathe. One of these things needs the Empress to let go and the other needs friction. It’s clear which is easier but you’re...you’re a supreme badass, aren’t you, and you try for both. You’re trying. Your fronds clutch chilly flesh like themselves, twist up, up into something else of positively benthic clenching cold, and you release your cramped handfuls of breast to scrabble out a mess of her hair from the surrounding water. She grinds against you, hard enough to bruise. It’s almost enough. You’re close; you jerk. You can feel where the bones of her legs are, braced against your ribs by muscle. Her hands find your hands to curl around yours and pull harder; it doesn’t change anything.

The moonlight behind her, at the surface, shines like a coin sinking into the water. Bubbles rush up from her mouth as her back arches.

Water rushes into your gills as your braids go slack. You think you come, but mostly you breathe; you spasm up and into her and over her and yourself, so hard the water tastes of blood.

She’s much higher above you when your vision clears, and your braids are trailing lazily in front of your face as you drift further down the water column. There’s still a slimmer over her shoulder but it’s eclipsed by the mass of her as she twists, breaks the surface, and disappears into a mess of ripples erased by the waves. You taste your own genetic material in your gills; it’s heavier than water, and it’s following you down. Your shoulders bump gently into the sandy bottom.

Maybe...maybe you’ll just stay here for a while.

Your fork finally re-appears in your hand, and you let it flop to your side as the rest of you settles heavily onto the seafloor. Yeah. Yeah, that went well. Bichirs. Money. Nailed it.


End file.
